


love love peace peace (and a little revenge)

by Iverna



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 21:38:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iverna/pseuds/Iverna
Summary: … in which Killian does Eurovision, and Emma thinks he looks oddly familiar. Because the Eurovision was on and my friends are a terrible influence.





	love love peace peace (and a little revenge)

It’s all Ruby’s fault.

That’s Emma’s tale, and she’s sticking to it. She still isn’t entirely sure how writing a song turned into, well, this. She was going to just watch it on the TV. She wanted to stay in the background. But here she is, sitting backstage with Ruby and the rest of the Norway team, blinking in the flashing lights and trying not to look overwhelmed by the ridiculousness all around her.

Because Eurovision is ridiculous. There’s a guy on stage right now singing a high-pitched song about bread or something, while five other men dressed as rain drops dance around him. Or maybe they’re tear drops; Emma isn’t sure.

The point is, all Emma ever wanted to do was write a song, and yet here she is at the weirdest music event she’s ever attended and wondering about Europe’s collective sanity.

Elsa’s performance goes amazingly well, though, so there’s that. The ice theme was the right choice, as Ruby remarks with satisfaction, complementing the song while being weird enough to leave an impression. Emma had been unsure about the robotic snow man whizzing around the stage, but she understands the reasoning now. It’s probably the next meme already.

The crowd loves it, anyway.

Emma suffers through another ballad, this one sung by a German lady who could really do with a bucket or something to help her carry the tune. She’s only half-paying attention, most of her mind on Elsa and Ruby and trying to look calm and relaxed for the cameras, in case any show up.

“Next up is the UK—let’s meet their candidate!” one of the hosts (Emma keeps mixing them up) calls.

There are screens everywhere, showing the little clip that plays before each country takes the stage. Emma pays no attention, because Anna has started talking again, her nerves running away with her.

“... because really everyone says neighbours vote for each other, but we don’t have that many neighbours and I’m not sure Sweden would vote for us anyway, but I think that a lot of people also vote for the song they like best and really Elsa has been the best so far, hasn’t she? And—”

“Anna,” Emma says, reaching over to put a calming hand on the girl’s shoulder before she can drive them all to the brink of nervous collapse again. “ _Anna_. Relax. Elsa did her best, and now we just have to wait and see.”

“I know, but—oh, he’s _handsome_ , isn’t he?” Anna’s eyes have snagged on the stage, where the UK’s candidate is about to begin his song.

Emma follows her gaze, thankful to the UK for distracting Anna—and does a startled double-take.

Standing on the stage is a dark-haired man wearing an outfit made from red velvet and black leather, brandishing a hook on his left arm, and smouldering at the camera. There’s a ship’s wheel beside him and wind is blowing from somewhere; apparently, the UK is going full-on pirate this year. He’s handsome, all sharp cheekbones and blue eyes and just enough scruff on his cheeks and jaw to make him dangerously roguish, but that isn’t what makes Emma’s eyes pop.

She knows him. If it weren’t impossible, she’d swear that that’s _Jones_.

The info graphic comes up on the screens as the music starts, and Emma’s heart stops.

Killian Jones.

Singing a song called “Revenge For My Love” which, apparently, begins with dramatic violins and a thunderclap. The stage lights dim.

Then they light up again, and there are waves and a pirate ship on the huge screens behind him, and a guitar starts screaming, and the crowd goes wild.

“Once upon a time I loved a lass so fair...”

He’s got a voice to die for, too, slightly rough, with that delicious accent she remembers so well.

Emma feels the ground falling away beneath her. There’s no doubt about it. It’s _him_.

But she met him a year ago, in England, on holidays. Not even a summer fling; a one-night stand after they met in a run-down pub in Nottingham.

How is he _here_? Standing on stage, singing a song about lost love and—

She gapes as he whirls around and his voice changes pitch to a low growl; the lights dip and he’s singing something about revenge and anger and torn all apart, and Emma can’t seem to stop staring.

The crowd loves him. Especially when he changes pitch again and the song turns into a battle against himself, revenge versus hope, anger versus hate, and now there are two ladies behind him having a rope-pulling contest and this is so damn _weird_.

“Yo ho! With vengeance in my heart, yo ho! for the love I lost...”

He hams it up for the camera, winking and smouldering in turns. He’s good at it, snarling the lyrics one moment and singing with a desperate longing the next. Love and loss. Vengeance and redemption.

And pirate ships and rope-pulling, because why not?

“Wow,” Ruby says beside her, studying the screen, and Emma has to fight back an utterly ridiculous surge of jealousy at the appreciative look in her eyes. “Go, England.”

“It’s the UK,” Emma mutters, as Jones starts the next verse, drums pounding and lights flashing and something about how his only solace is the open sea. “And he’s ridiculous.”

“In the best way,” Ruby says, eyes bright. “And it’s sweet, isn’t it?”

“What is, the pirate ship?”

“No, the story!” Ruby exclaims. “Weren’t you listening when they introduced him? Why he’s here? Because of this girl?”

“What?”

“What?”

“I missed the introduction,” Emma says. “Anna was talking.”

Ruby makes an impatient sort of gesture. “They said he’s here because he wants to find this girl he met once and never saw again. Apparently it’s been a big media frenzy in the UK, trying to find his mystery lady. Isn’t that cute?”

“Uh,” Emma says.

“His Swan Maiden, apparently,” Ruby says. And then, when Emma just stares at her, “Well, _I_ think it’s sweet.”

“His... Swan...” Emma repeats, her voice faint. Because Jones only ever called her Swan, except once, when she saw stars and held him tight and he was breathing hard into her neck and said “Emma” like it was a prayer and what the _hell_?

Ruby is giving her a funny look. “Emma?”

Emma needs to snap out of it. As surreal as this is, it’s going to get a hundred times worse if Ruby figures it out. “Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking of something else.”

Emma doesn’t know how she makes it through the rest of the show. Killian Jones has burst back into her life in the most dramatic way possible, and he doesn’t even know it. She sees him across the green room after his song, and she knows that he has no idea she’s here.

She can’t decide whether or not she ought to let him know. Because okay, the thing with the swan maiden is weird, but she knows a little bit about mythology. Swan maidens are a thing in mythology. And from what she remembers, Jones is enough of a nerd to make that kind of reference. It doesn’t mean her.

It doesn’t mean her, because that would be even more ridiculous than running into a former one-night stand at the Eurovision Song Contest, where he is a contestant.

No, it’s probably a former girlfriend, or a fling that ended badly, or maybe it’s just a media gimmick. He knows her name, after all. He could look her up. Not that she’s easy to find—she’s not even here under her own name, she’s representing one half of the artist’s pseudonym that she and Mary Margaret use—but still. He could find her.

Not that he has any reason to. It was a one-time thing. Just because she thinks back to it occasionally—okay, more than occasionally—doesn’t mean he does. He probably doesn’t even remember her.

Especially since all this media frenzy around the Eurovision has got to mean plenty of female attention for him. Certainly if the shouts from the crowd and the appreciative looks from the woman around Emma are any indication.

Damn him, anyway.

Elsa and Anna are a welcome distraction, both of them nervous, though Anna shows it more than her sister. Emma leaves Ruby and Kristoff to keep Anna calm and distracted, and sits with Elsa, offering mostly silent support and encouragement.

“Thanks,” Elsa says quietly, after a while. “You know, I don’t mind if I don’t win, I just... I hate this waiting.”

“Yeah.” Emma swallows. “Waiting is the worst.”

And she should know. She waited for Neal a long time after he left. He never came back.

People never come back. Not to her, anyway.

And she’s fine with that, because she doesn’t need them to. She can make her own way. She’s made her way all the way to the final of the ESC.

It takes over an hour, endless minutes of waiting and excitement and bated breath, but then Elsa is announced as the winner.

The _winner_.

She’s won. Emma’s song has _won_.

And Emma is suddenly standing on the stage with the rest of the team and blinking back tears because Elsa is blinking back tears. It’s a lot of emotion in one night and Emma thought she was prepared, but she was not. She was not ready for Killian bloody Jones on a stage singing his stupid heart out. It’s thrown her for a loop, and so, when Elsa flings her arms around her, she hugs back and maybe sobs just a little.

Elsa manages to compose herself enough for one more amazing performance of her song, Emma watching from the sidelines and unable to keep the smile off her face. She knows what this means to Elsa, the girl who spent most of her life hiding in the shadows. Now she’s out there on the stage, doing what she loves, and the world is cheering her on and crying with her because she _made_ it.

It’s the after party where things get really ridiculous.

Emma considers refusing to go, but she can’t bring herself to turn Elsa and the others down and abandon them now. And, okay, maybe she is a _little_ curious to see if anyone on the UK team recognises her. If he even goes. Though, from what she knows about him, there’ll be no keeping him away.

But there are pretty people everywhere, and the contestant from Greece is _gorgeous_ , and really, there’s no way anyone will notice Emma. She’s not even wearing a glittery dress, and she barely did anything with her hair except brush it.

And he didn’t mean her.

The party is loud and full and exuberant, and Ruby seems to be everywhere at once, making friends all over Europe. It’s a lot to keep up with. As Ruby chats and laughs with the lady from Greece and the four juggling banjo players from Estonia, Emma finds her attention wandering.

“’scuse me,” a voice says beside Emma, and she looks up into blue eyes and a friendly smile on a handsome face that looks vaguely familiar. “You haven’t seen the Norwegian lass around, perchance, have you?”

Emma gives him a wary look as she considers. She doesn’t know where Elsa is, but long-honed instincts tell her to never answer these kinds of questions. Even if the guy looks pretty harmless.

He seems to realise where her thoughts are heading, and holds up his hands. “It isn’t what you may think. It’s my brother, you see, he’s looking for someone and he’s convinced that he saw her with the—” He breaks off, looking sheepish. “Sorry. I should probably introduce myself first, shouldn’t I? Liam Jones.” He holds out his hand.

Emma stares at his hand, then at him, as the words _brother_ and _Jones_ collide in her head, and suddenly she knows why he looks familiar, why she feels like she’s looked into blue eyes like those before.

“Liam!” someone calls over the music and noise. “Liam, what the bloody devil are you—”

And it’s definitely Killian Jones who is standing behind his brother, wide-eyed and a little flushed, still in his ridiculous leather and velvet pirate outfit, still with a hook instead of a proper prosthetic.

There’s a jolt in the pit of her stomach, and Emma realises that she’s still staring with her mouth open and her entire body in uproar.

It’s only a moment before Killian recovers, a wide grin breaking across his face. “Swan,” he breathes—Emma sees, rather than hears, the name on his lips. He pushes past Liam, beaming at her. “I _knew_ it was you.”

“Wait, _this_ is her?” Liam demands. “You’re joking.”

Killian pays no attention to his brother. He’s looking at Emma like he can’t quite believe his eyes, like he’s half-convinced that he’s dreaming the best dream he’s had in his life.

Emma thinks that maybe she ought to say something. Something cool and suave and smart, something that lets him know that yeah, she remembers him, in a vague, casual sort of way.

“Uh,” she says, and has to swallow, because her throat is very dry. “Hi.”

Brilliantly eloquent.

“Hi,” Killian echoes. He can’t seem to stop smiling. “You do remember me, I hope?”

“Yeah,” Emma manages. “Yeah, I remember you. I didn’t know you were a famous pirate rock star,” she adds, almost cringing at her own wry tone. If Mary Margaret were here, she’d scold her for deflecting.

Killian goes with it, chuckling. “I wasn’t. It’s a new thing. I thought I’d give it a go, but I don’t think it’s the career for me.”

“Gonna hang up the hook?” she asks, smiling despite her best efforts.

He grins again, then winks at her. “I might keep the hook. But I think the velvet has got to go.”

Against her will, she looks at his red velvet vest, the generous V leaving plenty of space to show off the open shirt he wears below it, and the tan skin of his chest, dusted with dark hair. She remembers that, too, knows that the skin there will feel coarse and warm under her hand if she reaches out.

“Agreed,” she says, not really thinking about it.

Liam clears his throat. “Smooth, Killian, you’re really—”

“Shut it,” Killian growls at him.

Another voice intervenes before any of them can say anything else. “Emma?”

Elsa is making her way through the crowd, a tall, lithe figure pushing easily past the people around her. “I’m so sorry, Anna just—” Her eyes flick to Killian, then to Liam. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Elsa, this is Killian and Liam,” Emma says, falling into the safe and familiar routine of introductions, which gives her a reprieve from Killian’s stupid blue eyes and their ridiculous intensity. “And guys, this Elsa.”

“A pleasure,” Killian says with a wide smile, reaching over to shake Elsa’s hand. “Congratulations on the win, lass, it was well-deserved.”

“Thank you,” Elsa says gracefully.

Killian steps back a little, and they both turn to Liam. Liam, in contrast to Killian, seems to have momentarily lost the power of speech. His mouth has gone a little slack.

“Hi,” Elsa says, with her trademark shy smile that she hates and the media back home loves so much.

“Hi,” Liam manages. “Yes. Congratulations. I loved the song, it was... that is, you were fantastic.”

Emma looks at Killian, finds him looking back at her. His eyes are sparkling with a mischievous sort of delight, a look that says very clearly that Liam Jones is in for the ribbing of his life later. Emma takes one look at Elsa, sees the way she’s looking at Liam, and turns back to Killian.

She pushes her half-full glass away somewhere, deliberately, and gives him an expectant look. “How about you buy me a drink?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Killian says. He looks at Elsa. “In case my brother takes a while to recover his wits, he’s really rather a nice bloke once he loosens up, and he doesn’t mean the stupid things he’ll probably end up sayi—“

“ _Killian_ ,” Liam grits out, glaring at his brother.

“See you in a bit,” Killian says cheerfully, offering Emma his arm.

Emma is still choking back her laughter as she takes it. And then she realises that she is at the ESC after-party with Killian Jones, and he is buying her a drink, and she stops laughing.

He gets them both drinks, and they find a quieter corner somewhere, and that intensity is back in Killian’s eyes and Emma almost runs.

Almost.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Killian says, taking a sip of his rum. His hand is shaking a little. “I mean, I hoped, of course, but... it was an awfully long shot. And I certainly didn’t expect _this_.”

“What was a long shot?” Emma asks, because she needs to _know_.

He shrugs, a cautious expression sliding over his face. “Did you hear... I mean, before the contest, or even tonight, did you hear anything about my, ah, quest?”

“No,” she says, honestly. “I didn’t even know you were performing.”

“Ah. And yet, you’re here.” He gives an incredulous sort of chuckle, shaking his head. “The irony.”

“Irony?”

“Aye. Well, the thing is...” He lets out a long breath. “Honestly, Swan, you’ve stumped me. I didn’t expect this.”

Emma takes pity on him. “Ruby told me about it. About why you signed up.”

His eyes snap to hers and oh, no, he _did_ mean her. It’s written all over his face. “Oh?”

“Yeah, it...” Emma has to swallow again. “It seems like an awkward way to try and find... someone.”

“Aye, well.” He shrugs. And then he sighs, taking another swig of rum and setting down his glass with a thunk, looking almost exasperated. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate me hunting you down. This was the only way I could think of to put the ball in your court, as it were.”

He meant her. He’s not even a little shy about admitting it, either. And he _knows_ her, at least well enough to know that she hates being pressured.

It was like this before, too. He read her like no one else could, except maybe Mary Margaret, but she’s had more practice. And Emma feels like she knows Killian Jones, too, knows the way he flirts to hide his emotions and the way he wants to hope but won’t let himself and the way he’s looking for something to believe in.

“By signing up to the Eurovision Song Contest,” she says, and this is her again, her wry tone and her deflections and her “this is ridiculous”.

“Aye,” he says, apparently hearing everything she’s not saying without any problem, because he’s smiling again. “Not that it did me any good, since you didn’t see any of it, but I suppose I should have expected you to surprise me.”

He says it so fondly that she’s smiling back before she even realises it. “Seriously,” she says. “Come on. You didn’t sign up just to... just for that.”

He ducks his head a little, the way he does when caught in a fib. “It was a little of both. Everyone loves a bit of romance, don’t they? But the desire to see you again was genuine. Is genuine.”

She’s shaking her head and laughing, and she can’t seem to stop looking at him. Of all the ridiculous, overdramatic...

But that’s Killian Jones. She knew that from the moment he bowed over her hand and kissed it and called her “milady” without a trace of sarcasm. He’s ridiculous. But he means it.

And it should be scary, but it occurs to Emma that he’s in the far scarier position here. He’s put himself out there in a way few people ever have.

For _her_.

“I realise it didn’t work out as intended,” he goes on, and his face is a study in mixed emotions, guarded and hopeful and a little desperate. “You’re not here for... for me, and I know that it’s all a little ridiculous. But, Emma, I really did want to see you again. I still do.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s never been good at this. There’s a reason why she opted for a one-night stand with him in the first place. It’s easier that way. Uncomplicated. Unemotional.

Except it wasn’t, with him. And it still isn’t. She missed him.

“... but at least now you know where I stand, so perhaps, if you’re amenable, we could—”

It’s partly the way he says “amenable” and partly the way words keep trying to come out of Emma’s mouth but she can’t quite seem to form them, and maybe it’s also partly the pirate outfit and the windswept hair. All of it works together to have Emma leaving her seat and leaning over to Killian, one hand bracing herself on his shoulder and the other reaching to brush along his cheek, and then her lips are touching his lips and she thinks that maybe that’s even better than words.

It takes him a moment, but then he kisses her back, and she is lost. She remembers how he kisses, remembers the gentle brush of his lips over hers and the fervour with which he deepens the kiss, the languid fire in her belly as his tongue delves into her mouth, the desperate sound he makes at the back of his throat.

“Is that a yes?” he breathes, when they drift apart a little.

Normally, she’d ask him what the question is, make him say it, but really, he’s done enough of that. It’s hardly his fault that she wasn’t listening.

And normally, she’d be worried, the thoughts of what if already pushing at her—what if he changes his mind? what if the thrill of the chase was all there was to it? -- but she can’t seem to make them stick. If it goes wrong, she’ll deal with it. She always does. But she knows she’ll regret it forever if she walks away now.

She runs a hand down his chest, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt, and smiles. “I guess so.”

He smiles like those are the best three words he’s ever heard in his life, and he can barely stop smiling enough to kiss her again, though he manages it all too well after another few moments.

Really, Emma thinks, the Eurovision is pretty damn awesome, after all.

(She briefly reconsiders this opinion when she has to help Elsa hide from the press, who cannot seem to get enough of the news that she is dating another contestant—no, the contestant’s brother—no, _both_ of them—no, it’s all just a front to hide her true relationship with the redheaded girl who is not _actually_ her sister. The media, as always, have an incredible imagination. Liam, to his credit, takes it in stride and they quickly grow bored of snapping photos of his glaring face.)

(Emma’s own media storm lasts barely a few weeks, mostly because Killian cannot help telling the journalists that yes, he did find his mystery lady and yes, she did agree to give him a chance and yes, he is absolutely ecstatic. She turns down the interviews in favour of more kisses and stolen quiet moments in obscurity.)

(A year later, Elsa is invited back to sing at the next contest, and she accepts; Killian agrees to join her, and it turns into a spangly, glittery, glorious pirate-and-princess extravaganza. The crowd loves it. Afterwards, Killian kisses Emma in a dark corner and Emma thinks that maybe, just maybe, she ought to send Ruby some kind of thank-you note.)

(Emma does not run, and Killian does not leave.)

(And he keeps the red vest, after all.)


End file.
